


southern curiosities

by Roflskate



Series: Torrigan Cadash [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bad Jokes, Cadash also has issues, Canon Compliant, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Drunken Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Gen, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, POV Dorian Pavus, Slow Burn, The Inquisitor and Dorian never shut up, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, so many bad jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2020-06-25 18:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19751131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roflskate/pseuds/Roflskate
Summary: "Despite his odd sort of charisma, the Inquisitor remained a man who wasn’t so easy to sum up. A truly fascinating southern curiosity, for all that might entail."Or... A series of missing scenes chronicling the developing relationship between Lord Inquisitor Cadash and Dorian Pavus: two perfectly well-adjusted men who would just rather not talk about their feelings.





	1. old friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian needs help tracking down some "friends". Horrible jokes are exchanged, and a friendship is struck up.

There’s nothing quite like being a stranger in a strange land. Especially when everyone in said land seemed convinced that at any given moment you were liable to sacrifice them in a Blood Magic ritual and breach the gates of the Black City itself. Or so the rumours went.

In the week since Dorian Pavus had arrived at Skyhold (or to be more precise, the week since they’d _all_ arrived at Skyhold; one couldn’t couldn’t really count those scant moments in Haven before Corypheus and his Archdemon destroyed the place), he’d endured more humiliations than he dared to count. There were multiple glares from the Revered Mother that would have likely killed lesser men, a blacksmith that had attempted to spit on him (after calling him a _Magister_ , no less… the ignorance of some of these Southerners was likely the most offensive thing about them), and countless rooms that went suspiciously quiet when he entered. Oh, perhaps there were a handful of people that had been willing to talk to him at length (mostly out of sheer curiosity, or, perhaps in the case of the Merchant’s Guild deshyr, an easy betting partner, he suspects), but it was hardly enough to offset the rest of it. If he wasn’t so used to being considered a walking scandal back home, it might have been enough to make him question _why_ he’d bothered to warn them all about the ancient Darkspawn Magister and his army of fanatical mages in the first place.

The key word, of course, being “almost”. Despite the glaring Revered Mothers, the cursing blacksmiths, and the uncomfortably silent rooms, the South did have its… small curiosities. Or rather, one small curiosity in particular that was currently engaged in what could only be described as “animated” conversation with Ambassador Josephine Montilyet as they emerged from the War Room.

Dorian wasn’t quite certain how to feel about Inquisitor Cadash. Oh, he could certain appreciate the Inquisition’s larger goals, or else he might’ve left once they were safely out of harm’s way, but as for the newly-minted Inquisitor himself? He remained something of a mystery. A mystery with a striking pair of green eyes, a shockingly well-kept mustache, and a roguish lopsided smile to be sure, but nevertheless a more difficult man to read than one might think. He had a certain easygoing charm about him and a level of irreverence that almost matched Dorian’s own, but all accounts suggested his past as a Carta member was something to be wary of, at best. When he’d asked the man himself about it, he only replied that _everyone_ had their “little quirks” and while it was certainly an answer that he could appreciate, it wasn’t exactly one that gave him any deeper insight about the so-called “Herald of Andraste”. His more recent actions also didn’t tell Dorian much. He had seemingly gone to the Southern Templars for aid, and yet dissolved their Order without so much of a second thought, if rumours were to be believed. Not to mention, tavern gossip said that he’d been looking to _train_ with one, despite what some (if they were being charitable) might call a “notable” contempt for religion.

Yes, all in all, despite his odd sort of charisma, the Inquisitor remained a man who wasn’t so easy to sum up. A truly fascinating Southern curiosity, for all that might entail.

“—you can’t be serious, my Lord. If we’re caught on the Comte’s land without his permission—” Josephine says, apparently not yet noticing Dorian’s presence on account of being so absorbed in her conversation with the dwarf.

“—I know you’re the diplomat, Lady Montilyet, but _I’m_ the one who grew up in the Carta. _I_ know how these dwarves think. We wait around for some noble to deal with the problem, and they’ll get the drop on us. It’s better to—” The Inquisitor begins before abruptly stopping. ( _Well, at least one of you noticed the ‘Evil Magister’,_ Dorian thinks to himself.) “But, we can continue this another time. Looks like we have company.”

Dorian smiles. “Oh, no need to stop on my account.”

“Huh. I didn’t take you for a voyeur, Pavus.” The Inquisitor says, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, not always, Inquisitor. But I can’t help but be… intellectually aroused by fascinating conversation,” Dorian says, and in that moment, he almost swears that Josephine rolls her eyes. Or, at least he _would_ swear that she had, if he didn’t know that she was entirely too proper for such a base display of annoyance.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Cadash says, smiling that crooked smile of his. Now _there_ was another thing that couldn’t help but confuse Dorian. If he didn’t know any better, he’d almost swear that the dwarf had been flirting with him. He _knew_ flirting, after all. But for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out the Inquisitor’s intentions. Was it bravado? A way to throw him off balance? Was this simply how he acted with everyone? He _had_ seen him act in a similar manner with the Seeker, and even the Ambassador. In the small likelihood that he was serious? The Inquisitor wasn’t an entirely repulsive-looking man, all things considered, but still…

“—If I may, Master Dorian, is there any particular reason that you’re outside of the War Room?” Josephine asks.

Ah, _right_. The _actual reason_ he’d been ‘lurking in the shadows’, as some might say. “Actually, I was hoping that I might speak to the Inquisitor about something. Alone, preferably. As much as I’m sure you’ll feel the loss of my presence, I’d hate to leave the both of you so in awe of my voice that you’ll be incapable of focusing on anything else.” A _tad_ melodramatic, perhaps but it _should_ get the point across.

“I see. Until later, Inquisitor. Master Pavus.” Josephine replies before slowly stepping away. If she has any questions or objections, she is far too proper to voice them (as if Dorian expected anything else).

“Like I said, _Lady_ Josephine, we’ll continue this later!” The Inquisitor calls after her, giving the Ambassador a _wink_ right before she turns around, of all things.

Well. At least _that_ seemed to help settle the question about the flirting. Most likely. Possibly. As Josephine shuts the door behind her, he looks back at the Inquisitor, the dwarf’s smile suddenly gone, and his tone matter-of-fact.

“What do you need, Pavus? No one’s giving you a hard time, are they?”

“What? No. Well… It’s really nothing that I can’t handle.” Of all the things that he thought the Inquisitor might ask, _that_ hadn’t quite been at the top of the list. If he hadn’t been so caught off guard, he might’ve taken better care to _not_ answer so honesty. To make matters even _worse_ , the look Cadash is giving him is almost… sympathetic.

Oh _this_ was just embarrassing.

“Look, don’t let it bother you too much,” The Inquisitor says, waving a hand dismissively. “They were the same with me at first, at least the ones who weren’t taken in with the whole ‘Herald of Andraste’ bullshit. Former Carta enforcers don’t exactly scream ‘trustworthy’. Just keep being your charming self, and they’ll eventually forget why they hate you in the first place.”

“Somehow, that’s easier said than done, even with my _ample_ charm. Unfortunately, I don’t have the advantage of a glowing hand that can seal Fade Rifts like you do. Not to mention, I haven’t been plucked out of the Fade by Andraste Herself,” he adds, taking a strange sort of joy in the way that the Inquisitor rolls his eyes with utter disdain. For a man with what must be a rather checkered past (at the very best) that expression was almost adorable, in its own way.

“Look, _you_ still tried to warn us about the Venatori at Haven. Even after that, you offered to help us, in spite of everyone and their pet nug looking down their noses at you like you’re about to pull an archdemon out of your ass like Corypheus. People will eventually remember that, or else someone might make them remember,” The Inquisitor says, and just for a moment, he can almost see the ex-Carta enforcer in him. Though why Cadash should care about _Dorian’_ s reputation is really beyond him.

“But a bunch of ingrates aren’t why you’re here. So, what is it?” And just like that, the moment is gone, and the Inquisitor looks downright affable again.

Right. The reason Dorian was here in the first place. He grins. “Actually, I wanted to let you know about a few… friends from back home that have come down south and might be lurking somewhere out in the wilderness.”

Cadash raises an eyebrow. “What sort of friends?”

“Oh, maybe ‘friends’ is a poor term for them. I suppose ‘distant acquaintances that were shortsighted enough to join the Venatori and who I would gladly assist in murdering due to the threat that they currently pose’ might be a tad more accurate, if a little wordy.”

The Inquisitor smiles that same lopsided smile as earlier, his mustache somehow accentuating it (and again, Dorian _really does_ have to respect the man for the care he must take with it. Facial hair doesn’t just naturally grow in that shape, after all). “What do you know? Those are exactly the type of friends that I love meeting. Write something up for me, and I’ll get Cullen or Leliana to look into them immediately, on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you’ll come with me when we pay these friends of yours a visit. We wouldn’t want them to forget who to thank. And besides, I figured you might want to light them on fire yourself, or whatever shit it is that mages do.”

Dorian smiles. “I’ll admit, I was hoping that you’d say that, even if I’m not exactly looking forward to the whole ‘wilderness’ part of this whole excursion. The wilderness and I have never quite gotten along.”

Cadash shrugs. “Even better. Varric will appreciate someone else to complain about everything with, and I think it’s almost impossible for Sera to hate you more than she hates Solas or Vivienne.” He pauses for a moment before giving a wry grin, “and I suppose _I_ wouldn’t completely dislike your company either.”

“Is that so, Lord Inquisitor? It almost sounds as if you would _like_ it.”

“…Is that you trying to fish for a compliment, Pavus?”

“You think I would dare stoop so low? I’m shocked and offended.”

The Inquisitor is laughing now. “And now a comment about my height? Here I was saying that everyone was _too_ hard on you, and _this_ is how you repay me?”

To his surprise, Dorian finds himself laughing in return. It wasn’t like he’d meant it like that, and he was certain that the other man knew it. “Now, don’t be like that, Inquisitor. To make it up, I promise that I _won’t_ trip over you while we’re traipsing about the countryside. You see that, right there? _That_ was _intentional._ ”

Cadash shoots him a mock glare that utterly fails, considering his poor attempt at containing his laughter. “You know, Pavus, you’re really lucky that I like you.”

Dorian smiles, “And there it is. You just said that you _like_ me, so it only stands to reason that you _must_ like my company.” 

“Must I?” The dwarf was still wearing that insufferably amused expression on his face, his smile only accentuated by his facial hair.

“Now you’re trying to be difficult. It won’t work, just so you know. If you’re not careful, we could keep going like this for hours, at least.” 

“I’m sure there are worse fates.” Cadash says, shrugging. 

“Such as?”

“Do you want me to make an itemized list for you?

Dorian pauses for a moment, considering his options. “Oh, why not? _This_ ought to be good.”

“I hope you weren’t planning on doing anything else this afternoon. The Carta has a list so long that we'll _definitely_ be here for hours.”

“Will we?” Dorian asks.

“Oh, at the very least,” the dwarf says, while wearing nothing short of an expression of distinctly perverse glee on his face. “Maybe even days.”

Really, was this how the Inquisitor was with _all_ of his friends? _Wait,_ Dorian thinks to himself, _are we friends now_? Even if they hadn’t known one another for long, it was certainly starting to seem that way, now wasn’t it? There were still plenty of things that Dorian didn’t quite understand about Inquisitor Cadash. But, as they continued talking about everything and nothing, Dorian was certain that if nothing else, he honestly liked the man.


	2. practicality's sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and the Inquisitor end up talking in an inn and inadvertently brush up against a couple of sore spots.

Some two weeks into his fourth outing with the Inquisitor, Dorian came to the disturbing revelation that he might actually _like_ venturing about Southern Thedas. Of course, this newfound perspective came with a few particular caveats: Firstly, there was still nothing to like about the actual wilderness part of it all, and secondly, any particular enjoyment he was gaining might easily be offset the next time they were set upon by four bears at once. No, what Dorian found that he _actually_ liked about these little outings was the company. 

Whether or not that was quite as shameful as liking the hiking itself remained to be fully seen. After all, there were certain members of their little adventuring group that were that were less… pleasant than others. Blackwall and Iron Bull were united in their total ignorance of basic concepts such as “soap” and “bathing”. Solas was an intelligent man, but Dorian somehow got the feeling that the elf was silently judging every word that he uttered. But as for the others? They were pleasant enough. Cole was simply _fascinating_. Vivienne was _fun_ , in the same way that accidentally tripping into a pit of vipers could be fun. Cassandra was endlessly entertaining and all too easy to fluster with the right words. If he was feeling particularly masochistic, he might even call his current two travelling companions something akin to “friends”. Varric was almost as displeased with the outdoors as Dorian and made sure that everyone knew it. Even so, the dwarf had plenty of entertaining stories and was almost always up for a good round of betting. Despite her initial reservations, Sera had declared him her “favourite mage in the Inquisition”, though considering his competition was Vivienne and Solas, that didn’t seem like any great accomplishment. Still, much like Fereldan ale, he supposed that the elf had her… qualities, in her own peculiar way. 

As for the Inquisitor himself? Despite Cadash’s insistence that they traipse through marshes, bogs, and all other manner of _still water_ , that man was arguably the single greatest contributor to Dorian’s epiphany. Horrifying thought, that. The dwarf was surprisingly easy to talk to, and oddly interested in listening to Dorian ramble on about magical technique and strategy. The Inquisitor’s skill on the battlefield was also noteworthy. He had a certain finesse with his weapon that Dorian hadn’t expected, and while his templar abilities were hardly the most refined, he had to grudgingly admit that they had saved them in more than one fight. Each battle at his side was almost always a unique experience, and — dare he say it — _fun_ (or as fun as nearly being eaten alive by giant spiders can be) _._

More than a few times, he’d asked the Inquisitor why he’d taken up templar training, despite his seeming indifference (at best) to the Order, and outright disdain for religion in general. 

“You’ve seen what we go up against, Pavus. With so many demons and Venatori wandering around, I’d be an idiot _not_ to learn something that could give us a little bit of an edge over those assholes. Besides, dwarves are resistant to lyrium, I’ve worked with the stuff long enough to know the risks,” he’d said during their most recent conversation, punctuating his point with a cheeky grin, “and maybe I just _really_ like the irony.”

“You also can’t forget how attractive the smell of lyrium is,” Dorian had replied, even though there were plenty more questions he’d liked to have asked.

“That too,” Cadash had shot back with a wink, and that had been the end of that.

Yes, it would seem that all things considered, Dorian would have to admit that he _did_ , in fact, enjoy it all in spite of himself. What he was going to do with that information, he still wasn’t quite sure.

“Something on your mind?” Cadash asks him as he shrugs off his armor, leaving it in a rather undignified heap on the floor. 

They’d stopped at an inn for the evening, thank the Maker. After their voyage to rescue Inquisition soldiers from the clutches of Avvar Barbarians through a swamp (or was it a bog? How are there _that_ many terms for still water?) that was miserable by _Fereldan_ standards, even Lord Inquisitor Cadash had to admit that they deserved some dry pillows to sleep on before reaching Skyhold. There were only two rooms available, so they had flipped a coin to decide who would share with whom, despite Varric and Dorian insisting that if there was any time to try and throw around one’s weight as the Herald of Andraste, _now_ was the time ( _“I can’t will extra rooms into existence, my lords,”_ was the Inquisitor’s unfortunate reply, coupled with a rather obnoxious bow). Varric had ended up with Sera, and so that had left Cadash with Dorian, giving him ample time to contemplate this brand new perspective on life that the dwarf had unknowingly helped him find.

“Oh, I was just thinking about how I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep without a wet bedroll and the sounds of moaning corpses in the distance.” Dorian says with an exaggerated wistful sigh as he lightly pats his mattress. _Not exactly the lap of luxury, but also not a damp marsh either,_ he thinks. _Things could certainly be worse._

The Inquisitor laughs, shaking his head as he takes a seat on his own bed with an audible _thud._ “You work with Fade spirits, don’t you? I bet if you tried really hard, you could conjure up a corpse or two to help you sleep.”

“Are you sure? Weren’t you telling Harding how much you hate corpses less than a week ago?” Dorian asks, taking a set directly across from the dwarf. He can’t help but note there’s barely more than a few paces between the two of them.

Cadash shifts on his mattress, waving a mockingly dismissive hand. “I was. But that doesn’t mean that I want one of my travelling companions to remain awake for the whole evening just because the sound of moaning undead _isn’t_ softly carrying him off to sleep.”

This attitude, right here? The slightly snide comments punctuated with just the right amount of sarcasm and the playful tone that sometimes seemed to border on flirtatious? _This_ was exactly the reason why he was enjoying their travels so much _._ The Inquisitor just had a way about him that was so utterly _charming_ that it made it nearly impossible _not_ to like him. Of course, the Inquisitor was this way with nearly _everyone_ , he reminds himself. He had seen how he made Josephine blush, and how he seemingly conspired with Varric to annoy Cassandra. Dorian was hardly unique in that regard.

“And here I thought the Carta were meant to be such hardened criminals. How someone who talks almost as much as _Varric_ manage to survive for so long is a miracle.”

Cadash’s smile drops for just a moment, and Dorian can’t help but worry he’s said something wrong. However, the moment quickly passes. “If I’m bragging, I’d say it was because of my unbeatable skill in battle and winning personality.”

“Of course. And if you’re being honest?” Dorian asks, and the moment he does, he once again wonders if perhaps it’s too invasive of a question.

Thankfully, the Inquisitor doesn’t seem to be offended. Quite the opposite, in fact. His smile only widens, as he briefly leans in closer to his friend, as if he’s about to tell him a particularly scandalous secret. “Sheer dumb luck.”

“You know, I think you’re selling yourself short, Inquisitor.” Dorian begins, before seeing Cadash roll his eyes. _Selling yourself short_. Oh, he should’ve known. 

“Dorian-” The Inquisitor begins, likely ready to launch into a comeback that would utterly distract the conversation. But as much as Dorian appreciated Cadash’s quick wit, he wasn’t going to let him get away from a genuine compliment that easily. Especially not when he gave so few of them.

“-Kaffas, you know what I mean! Unlike some of the brutes we’ve come up against, you actually have some _technique_ to your swings. Poorly chosen words aside, dumb luck doesn’t seem to have much at all to do with it.”

“Well... you know how things are. I picked things up here and there,” Cadash shrugs, using his right hand to smooth out his mustache. “There are plenty of swordsmen out there that are better than me. I just happen to be too close for the ground for them to actually hit.”

Dorian scoffs, leaning backwards. “That may be true, but it’s hardly as if most people just pick up a sword one day, and suddenly, they’re expertly cleaving demons in half.”

“It’s been known to happen. Look at Sera.” And Cadash smiles that crooked smile Dorian was quickly growing embarrassingly fond of.

“I’d say what she does is less ‘technique’ and more ‘fire enough arrows at a target and see if one sticks’” Dorian says, sitting up straight again, “but if you don’t want to talk about it, I understand. I wouldn’t want you giving up some ancient dwarven greatsword trick passed down by your Ancestors, or Stone, or whatever it is that teaches dwarves how to perfectly decapitate a man.” 

The Inquisitor actually looks… contemplative for a moment, as though he’s debating on what to say next. Oh Maker, had Dorian actually unknowingly hit a sore spot _this_ time? What could he have _possibly_ have said? It wasn’t as though he asked a particularly invasive question, was it? Hadn’t he given him a way out of the conversation? Why was it that this man’s opinion was beginning to matter so much to him? When Cadash speaks again, his tone remains the same, but Dorian can’t help but think that his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You found me out, Dorian. Before we were exiled, House Cadash were members of Orzammar’s Warrior Caste. We were apparently damn good warriors too, but I’ll admit my sources might be a little biased. It was actually my aunt that trained me to fight, and wouldn’t you know, _she_ said it was some ancient dwarven technique passed down from the Ancestors. I guess if I was able to impress you, her story wasn’t complete nugshit.”

Ah, and there it was. _My aunt trained me to fight_. From personal experience, the topic of family was one that could often be unpleasant, and maybe it was no exception for Cadash. He had been part of the Carta, after all. Maker, was there some sordid affair behind the whole thing? Was his aunt some great warrior, and he’d disappointed her by turning to a life of crime? Perhaps he should’ve _known_ that anything that involved a former criminal’s past might very well be a sore spot. Or was Dorian reading far too much into their conversation and the topic of ‘family’ for one particular reason that he would rather not think about because it had been weeks since he’d gotten a decent sleep and his mind had started to wander? His aunt could’ve just taught him to fight, and that was that.

After what must have only been moments, but had seemed like an Age in his mind, Dorian finally replies, keeping the best nonchalant tone he can muster:

“...You didn’t believe her?” 

Thankfully, Dorian’s slight internal crisis seems to have gone completely unnoticed by the Inquisitor. “I believed her about as much as I believe _anyone_ in the Carta. Which is to say: very little, unless there’s something for them to gain. Not to mention, whenever she got tired of trying to spar with me, she used to have me chase down rats with a greatsword. Even with the stories she told me, I can’t say that it really screamed ‘ancient dwarven technique’ so much as ‘I can make my nephew into my own personal pest control service’”.

Dorian wrinkles his nose. “She had you chase down rats?”

“Sure. They were big enough to make decent sized targets, but small enough that I still needed to learn a bit of precision. At least, that’s what my aunt said. It seemed to work out well enough,” Cadash says as though it’s a perfectly normal activity for a child and _Dorian_ was the odd one for asking the question. Excuse _him_ for not being a southern barbarian, _Lord Inquisitor_.

“But still… _rats_?” Honestly, he didn’t want to think about it for that long. Although he supposes that he would be lying to himself if he said that he didn’t find the image of a young Cadash gleefully chasing after rats as he tried his best to swing a sword that was nearly twice his size strangely adorable in its own strange way.

“Not just any rats. _Giant_ rats. You know, the ones that are half the size of a cat?” Cadash says, his green eyes lighting up with far too much cheer for the topic at hand, in Dorian’s opinion. 

_Oh, even better_. “...I’ve seen them. Nasty little creatures.”

The Inquisitor shrugs, smiling as he shifts his body weight again, leaning in closer to the mage. “Oh, they’re not so bad in the grand scheme of things. My aunt used to say that in Orzammar, they use deepstalkers to train Warrior Caste children. You remember them, right? Those things that kept attacking us in the Storm Coast caves; seemed to be good friends with giant spiders?”

Well, that was even _worse_ , if possible. “That might be reason enough to be grateful that you weren’t born in Orzammar,” Dorian shudders.

Cadash sits up, his smile seeming to drop slightly underneath his mustache. “I don’t know if it’s true. Like I said, my aunt isn’t exactly someone I would’ve called ‘trustworthy’. But even if it isn’t, there’s still plenty of reasons to be happy I was born on the surface, Carta and all.”

“Carta and all? I take it you’re not particularly fond of Orzammar, then?” Dorian asks.

The Inquisitor raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever _been_ to Orzammar?”

“I can’t say that I have.” 

Once again, Cadash is silent for a moment, green eyes darting back and forth in quiet contemplation. “Look Dorian. I’ve been there a few times, and I heard the stories. For how shit life in the Carta can be… most of the time, life as a Warrior Caste Dwarf isn’t much better. You get to spend your life serving some Noble asshole, and fine, maybe they’re someone that you can be friends with, like Varric, but if they do something that pisses off the wrong person, they’re gone, and you’re going down with them. That’s just the beginning too. If you manage to survive Orzammar politics, then you still get to spend your whole life fighting Darkspawn, and they’re not exactly known for their cuddly disposition.” 

This time, there _is_ a marked difference in his voice.

Well. If nothing else, Dorian could now safely say that _dwarves,_ be they Carta or Warrior Caste might just be a sore spot for him (Oh sweet Andraste, he’d imagined the whole sensitivity about ‘family’, hadn’t he? If there had been any discomfort on the Inquisitor’s end, it more than likely had been about his dwarven fighting technique… or the topic of the Carta to begin with), and a topic that might be more tactfully approached in the future, if at all. But since he was already talking about it… “So, are all surface dwarves this filled with unbridled disdain for their ancestral homeland, or is it unique to those that are part of the Inquisition?” He asks, trying his best to diffuse the situation.

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Dagna and Harding about that yourself. Either way, it eventually comes down to me dying a painful death underground as a member of the Warrior Caste, or dying a painful death on the surface as a member of the Carta. If I’d ever been lucky enough to choose between the two, I’d still choose the surface any day,” The Inquisitor says, shifting uncomfortably, still with far more venom in his voice than Dorian is used to.

 _Now there’s a depressing thought_. “...Have you ever thought about choosing ‘neither’?” Dorian asks.

“I did. That’s why I’m here.” Cadash laughs, the bitterness in his voice beginning to recede. “Well… that and my own dumb luck. I’d prefer it if they realized I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time, instead of their latest story about ‘divine intervention’ but no job is ever really perfect. If nothing else, at least I finally have some friends that I can trust not to stab me if I so much as look at them wrong.”

“Well… I’m not entirely sure about Sera.”

“You know what I mean.” Cadash says, green eyes oddly fixed on Dorian for just a moment, as once again, he leans in a little closer. Dorian isn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he can’t help but think that they’re both far too sober for a conversation about their friendship, how much it may or may not mean to the both of them, and all that other sentimental drivel. Thankfully, the moment seems to pass entirely (or rather, Dorian does his best to _will_ it to pass, because again, they are both _far_ too sober for this) as soon as he opens his mouth.

“...You’re not talking about _me_ , are you? I’m a mage from _Tevinter_. I could be waiting for just the right moment to stab you for a blood magic ritual, and you’d _never_ know,” Dorian says, doing his absolute _best_ ‘Magister laugh’.

“Please, we both know that would never happen. I’d bleed all over your outfit, and you’d never be able to get the stains out,” the Inquisitor says, waving a dismissive hand, as the smile on his face finally returns in earnest.

“You do have a point. I’d rather not ruin a perfectly good outfit for what would probably be a shamefully dull blood ritual. Besides, you’re a decent enough sort, for a dwarf.” _And thank the Maker you seem to be in about as much of a rush as I am to make this evening any more uncomfortably intimate than it already is,_ Dorian silently adds to himself.

“Thanks, Dorian. You’re a decent enough sort too, for a mage.” Cadash laughs.

They continue talking for a few more hours, their conversation topics distinctly less personal than the Carta, Orzammar, or what was shaping up to be a uniquely close friendship. Still, all things considered, perhaps the revelation that Dorian enjoyed venturing about Southern Thedas with a roguishly charming dwarven warrior wasn’t _quite_ so horrific after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: if you take the templar specialization as a dwarf, you get some race-specific lines.


	3. black fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Cadash have conversation about non-existent relationships, Orlesian folk heroes, and and definitely don't have ANY UST between them. At all.

The Inquisitor had been eyeing the bookshelf for a good three minutes.

At first, Dorian assumed that he was merely pretending to look busy, something that he often did when he wanted to avoid small talk with visiting nobles looking to worm their way into the good graces of the Herald of Andraste (a futile task, really, given the dwarf’s particular distaste for the title and for politics in general). That is, until he noticed his eyes darting around, first to the top shelf, then down to the floor, and then across the room, as though he was looking for something.

Or, to be more specific, as though he was likely considering getting something from the top shelf but didn’t want to say anything, and was attempting to form what could only be a completely _disastrous_ plan. It would take someone light and nimble to reach the top without bringing the whole thing crashing down, and while Lord Inquisitor Cadash was many things, _nimble_ was not among them.

Not that the Inquisitor didn’t have his finer qualities, of course.

As much as he was loath to admit it openly, Dorian really had grown rather fond of the dwarf in the months he’d been at Skyhold. The Inquisitor made pleasant enough conversation, could more than hold his own in sparring matches on and off the battlefield, and most importantly at least had some sense of personal hygiene, unlike most of their other male travelling companions. Oh, he might _deny_ that he cared about appearances when asked, but no man could maintain a mustache like that and not be a little vain.

(His green eyes were also deeply striking, reminding Dorian of the deepest recesses of the Fade. And, although he was hardly the most handsome man that Dorian had ever seen, he had a sort of charisma about him that was undeniably attractive. But that was not a train of thought that would be useful to pursue, _particularly_ not if recent rumours about the Inquisitor and Lady Josephine held any weight.)

Regardless, he wasn’t about to leave the Inquisitor to… whatever ill thought out notion was forming in that mind of his. Carefully, he makes his way over to his friend, lightly tapping him on the shoulder.

“Would you like me to get a book for you?” 

Cadash turns to face him, and if Dorian didn’t know better, he’d almost swear there was a look of relief in his eyes. “If you wouldn’t mind. I was thinking about making a daring leap for the top shelf, but I’d rather maintain some semblance of dignity.”

 _It was exactly as I thought_ , Dorian thinks to himself. _Absolutely adorable._ “Inquisitor, you’re the man that tried to outdrink Iron Bull last week to… mixed results. I think you’re well past pretending you have any dignity to preserve.” Dorian laughs.

The other man shrugs, a smile beginning to spread across his face. “Oh, that’s rich, being lectured about dignity from the man who can’t get enough of Fereldan ale.”

That was another thing he’d grown to like about the Inquisitor: he always took the bait that was laid out for him. Engaging conversation partners were something of a rare commodity, much less ones who so rarely took themselves seriously.

“Now, just because I don’t have any of my own, that doesn’t mean I can’t see it in others, now does it?” Dorian asks.

“Of course,” Cadash says, voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“It’s _true_ , my dear Inquisitor. For example, I can most _certainly_ tell that our dear Lady Josephine has plenty of dignity to spare.”

“If you say so,” the Inquisitor replies in that same droll tone, rolling his eyes.

“Are you telling me that you don’t think our dear ambassador has _dignity_? What will she say when I tell her just how casually you insult her? I’d hate to ruin a budding relationship so early in its infancy.”

Just for a moment, Cadash’s smile drops, and he looks almost… embarrassed? “Andraste’s Tits, not you too. Look, you don’t need to worry about ruining my budding relationship with Josephine, because it doesn’t exist.”

“Really?” Dorian asks, trying to ignore the strange sort of relief he feels at that news and the... implications of what that relief might mean. 

“Yes. I’m pretty sure we’re still friends though, so I’d appreciate if you don’t say anything that might put a damper on that.”

There was almost certainly more of a story there, but Dorian wasn’t one to push his friend on the matter, especially when it clearly made him uncomfortable. He supposes that he’ll have to ask Varric for any interesting details later on in the evening. For now however, the Inquisitor had originally showed up for a reason that had nothing to do with his (lack of) love life.

“I’ll keep quiet _this_ time, I suppose.” Dorian says, lightly tapping his friend on the shoulder to punctuate the point. Mercifully, Cadash’s smile slowly returns. “But I imagine you don’t want this to turn into an hours long rumination on which of us has less dignity to lose. Do you know the name of the book that you were looking for?”

“As tempting as that might be, I was hoping to get some reading done today,” Cadash chuckles, “I was looking for a book called The Adventures of the Black Fox. Have you heard of it?”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “As a matter of fact, I think I have. That’s the one by Gerrault, isn’t it? Where the author went through disturbing lengths to describe every painstaking bit of action, while occasionally forgetting that he was writing about a real historical figure?”

“The very same,” Cadash says. “Unfortunately, the ‘G’ authors just had to start on the top shelf.”

“You’re a fan of adventure serials? Or does Josephine have you doing more research into Orlais?” Dorian asks. “I know he was quite the hero to them.”

“The first one, actually. Swashbuckling heroes who get by on dumb luck, lifelong friends who start off trying to murder each other, what’s there not to like?” Cadash says, smiling that lopsided grin of his that Dorian couldn’t _help_ but be embarrassingly endeared to.

“That’s surprising,” Dorian says, as he looks over the books on the shelves, running his fingertips along their spines. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I know.” Cadash says with a dismissive snort, leaning against the railing in the centre of the room. “It’s downright shocking that a Carta Dwarf can string together more than three sentences, let alone _read_.” 

Dorian can’t help but note that behind his glib demeanor, there was a certain undercurrent of bitterness to his friend’s words. Apart from a few brief anecdotes here and there, Cadash had never said much about his life in the Carta, and on the rare occasions that he _had_ mentioned his work, it had seemed like something of a sore spot for him. Despite their growing friendship, Dorian had always felt that it wasn’t his place to pry. Maker knows that Dorian had enough sore spots that he knew picking at someone else’s, particularly when uninvited, was never a good idea.

“No, nothing like that. Southern dwarven stereotypes are utterly lost on me, as you really should know by now. I just didn’t see you as the sort to be so interested in adventure books, or stories about dashing rogues. You’re enough of one yourself that I thought the inaccuracies would bother you,” Dorian says, continuing to scan the shelf. ‘Gagnon’, ‘Garneau’, ‘Gelinas’, sweet Andraste, it seemed like nearly every Orlesian author’s name started with a ‘G’.

When Dorian glances back to his friend, Cadash is smiling again, as he nods his head a little to the right, giving the mage some more direction in his search. “First of all: your obvious flattery is noted and appreciated, _Lord Pavus_. Secondly, of course most of it is nugshit. The inaccuracies are what make it fun. And just like you said, I’ve lived the life of a ‘dashing rogue.’ It’s really not all it’s made out to be. Sometimes, it’s nice to just enjoy a story for what it is. We can’t all have your highbrow taste, now can we?”

Dorian turns back to the shelf, with a renewed fervor. “Well, at least you aren’t so far gone you’re reading the tripe that is Varric’s _Swords and Shields_.” Finally, he finds the book, pulling it out of its place on the shelf with a dramatic flourish, and turning back to face the dwarf, who is shooting him a truly fearsome mock glare.

“Dorian, it’s one thing to assume I have no dignity. Assuming I have no _taste_ is coming dangerously close to crossing a line,” Cadash says, shooting him a mock glare as he moves away from the railing. 

Now it’s Dorian’s turn to laugh, as he meets the other man’s eyes, taking a step towards him. “Is that so, oh _Lord_ Inquisitor?”

“Of course, Master Pavus,” Cadash replies, mirroring his friend’s movements. “Besides, rumour has it that you really shouldn’t be mocking anyone for reading that particular serial.”

“I had to read it, just to see how bad it was!” Dorian says, giving his best impression of indignation, pressing a hand to his chest.

“Just like you _have_ to drink Fereldan ale? If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that your tastes aren’t nearly as highbrow as you make them out to be,” the Inquisitor moves forward and holds Dorian’s gaze, a mischievous glimmer in his green eyes.

“You wound me, _Lord_ Cadash,” the Mage laughs, holding out the book for the Inquisitor to take.

“I try,” Cadash smiles. As he reaches out to take the book, their fingers brush against one another for the briefest of moments. Neither of them move, and Dorian swallows.

(Again, he can’t help but think of how striking Cadash’s eyes really were. And again, he reminds himself that this train of thought is going to do neither of them any good. Even if those rumours about Lady Josephine _had_ turned out to be just that.)

Dorian is the first to break the moment as he drops his hand to his side, trying to banish any unwanted thoughts from his mind. Mercifully, the Inquisitor is the first of them to speak again, waving his free hand with a flourish. “I’ll tell you what: I’ll read you two chapters, and if you find yourself enjoying it in spite of everything, you owe me a drink tonight. If you win, I’ll get you four pints of that Fereldan ale you love so much. Then we’ll see just how enlightened your tastes _really_ are.”

A smile creeps across Dorian’s lips. “That desperate to remain in my company, Inquisitor? Fine, I suppose I can indulge you, if you make it _five_. I might even be so gracious as to share one with you.”

“We’ll see, Dorian.” Cadash says, returning the smile. “You and I both know that you’re not nearly as cultured as you like to let on.”

“Is that so? Well, how do you know that I won’t just _lie_?” He asks.

“I suppose I’ll just have to trust you—” 

“—a _terrible_ choice, really.”

Cadash’s smile only grows, “-well, that, and as an ex-Carta member, I know a thing or two about catching liars in the act. If you pretend you’re not enjoying yourself when you _are_ , I’ll be forced to take drastic measures.”

“Oh? And what are these _drastic measures_ , my Lord?”

“I’ll have to make you buy me _another_ drink,” the Inquisitor says, winking at him. 

Dorian was growing far too fond of Inquisitor Cadash for his own good. He’s almost certain that he was careening towards a scandalous amount of embarrassment in the future. Yet, as he listens to his friend’s soft baritone attempting his best impression of a swooning maiden, he cannot quite bring himself to care. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it can be frustrating to be a dwarf, but if it means you can not flirt with the man you definitely don't have feelings for, it all balances out in the end.


	4. sun blonde vint-1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's personal quest still weighs uncomfortably heavy on him, and Cadash had a rather unfortunate fight after a mission with one of his closest friends went wrong. The solution to both of their problems is to get drunk.

Skyhold felt dreadfully dull without Inquisitor Cadash. It was an embarrassing thing for Dorian to admit to himself—one of _many_ embarrassing things, really—but there it was. The fact that it was also the first time in months that he’d been in Skyhold while the other man wasn’t didn’t exactly help matters either. For better or worse, that dwarf had become a near-constant fixture in his life.

During the day, Cadash would often stop by the library to debate the latest book of questionable repute he’d been reading. Dorian would reply in turn, telling him about his own intellectual pursuits—or rather, he’d try to explain certain theoretical magics to Cadash while the dwarf interjected about how “no one could ever actually follow this shit.” In the evenings, they would occasionally take dinner together at the tavern, and more than a few times, Dorian found himself talking to his friend long after the other patrons had retired. One particularly memorable night, Sera had stuck her head out of her room, yelling at them to keep it down while she’d thrown assorted objects at them. It would be no exaggeration to say that Cadash had somehow become Dorian’s closest friend in recent years—perhaps _ever_ , if he was being somewhat honest with himself. If he was being _fully_ honest with himself…

Well.

There were certain other things that he’d rather not acknowledge for the time being; not when a perfectly good friendship was on the line.

As to why he was still back at Skyhold while the Inquisitor was gone, enjoying the “wonders” of the Fereldan countryside? It was his own fault, really. Cadash had approached him before another outing, as he almost always did. Not that there was anything particularly unique or special about that. After all, when your only options for another mage was either Vivienne or Solas, was there really any competition?

“We’re heading out to meet a Friend of Sera’s. You’re more than welcome to come, if you want,” Cadash had said, with his best attempt at a smile.

And _there_ had been the issue.

It had only been a few days since they’d come back from the Hinterlands, having originally left on the pretense of meeting a ‘family retainer’, only to come face to face with Magister Halward Pavus himself. Truth be told, he still wasn’t quite sure how to feel about the conversation he had with his father; the awful pit that he got in his stomach every single time that he thought about it; how even with some manner of closure, nothing still seemed right, and he wasn’t sure that it ever would.

Also, he hated how Cadash’s voice had changed when they spoke again after arriving back at Skyhold, their ride having been filled with near-deafening silence. Gone was that charming and irreverent swagger he had grown so fond of—replaced with a tone of voice that seemed far too soft and gentle for his friend, even if he couldn’t help but treasure the words he had spoken. 

( _“I think you’re very brave."_

_“Brave?”_

“ _It’s not easy to abandon tradition, and walk your own path._ ”)

“As devastated as I’m sure you’ll be without me, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline this time. There’s still a lot on my mind, and…” Dorian trailed off, not entirely able to hide the edge in his voice. “Hopefully by the time you get back, I’ll have it sorted.”

“If you want to talk about anything—” Cadash started in that gentle tone that he had no right using again, and oh _Maker_ , he hadn’t felt quite this pathetic in a long time.

“—I’d rather not,” he curtly replied. 

“Of course,” Cadash said, their eyes briefly meeting. Dorian could tell that the dwarf wanted to say something else, but was mercifully relieved when he didn’t. After all, Dorian didn’t need his friend’s sympathy, or pity, or… whatever else it was. Finally, with a nod, the Inquisitor had left the room without another word. 

And so, that had been that. What Dorian didn’t plan on, of course, was that instead of having a miserable time traipsing about the Fereldan countryside, he ended up having a miserable time at Skyhold, with the added bonus of there being far too much time to think about things that he’d rather just _ignore_. 

If nothing else, at least he wasn’t spreading his misery to others. He’d spent the better part of an hour wandering aimlessly around the battlements, and mercifully, no one stopped to talk to him.

“Wistful and wandering along an uncertain path. The words aren’t right, but he wants them to be,” a voice says, jolting him back to the present.

_Apparently, there’s only so much mercy in the world._

“—Cole,” Dorian says flatly, and now he can’t help but wonder if his aimless wandering was less aimless, and more that _someone_ had been trying to ‘help’ him for the last hour or so, and been doing a rather pathetic job of it. Oh, wouldn’t that just be perfect?

“Hello,” Cole says, greeting him in that strange tone of his. _How many times has he done this today_ , Dorian wonders. Almost immediately, Cole is talking again, repeating his thought right back to him. “How many times has he done this today… it’s _not_ like that. Not now. I haven’t made you forget.”

“Well. That’s good to know,” Dorian replies, not sure if he likes the idea that the aimless wandering really _was_ all him. Not that it was likely to matter regardless, for he was sure to be in for a _long_ conversation about _feelings_ and _fathers_ , and… whatever else. “What brings you up here now, of all times? Surely you must’ve… heard me for the past hour, haven’t you? If you wanted to talk, why did you wait so long?”

“You didn’t want to talk to anyone yet,” Cole says, suddenly paying especially close attention to a bird perched on one of the stones, before slowly turning his focus back to Dorian.

“I don’t particularly want to talk to anyone _now_ , but here we are,” Dorian shoots back without really thinking (though he supposes that really doesn’t matter, given who he’s talking to), and he can just _imagine_ the questions and comments he’s in store for, if the ones Cole has asked while they’ve been out in the field were any indication. Awkward, _invasive_ , things about Tevinter, and his _family_ and…

“-You didn’t go with him this time. He wanted you to come, and you turned him away, even though you wanted to see him. Why?”

So _this_ is what they were talking about. He supposes it could be worse, but his friendship with Inquisitor Cadash is distinctly _not_ something he wants to think too deeply on. Not when he knew well enough what he’d find if he _did._

“It’s… complicated, I suppose. Sometimes you just want to be alone—” Dorian begins, hoping that the sooner they get this over with, the sooner it can be finished.

“-But you don’t want to be alone,” Cole continues, “No… green eyes fixed, focused, filled with pity. You didn't want it. But it wasn’t what you thought. I’ve never done this before _either_.”

Dorian sighs as he tries to decipher Cole’s meaning. The first part was straightforward enough. Cadash didn’t feel pity for him, even after everything that had happened. He supposes _that_ was nice enough to know, if a terrible invasion of a friend’s privacy. As to what Cole had said next— _I’ve never done this before_ _either_ — that wasn’t exactly clear. Or maybe it was. It really wasn’t something he wanted to think on for too long. Either way…

“Awfully rude of you, poking in someone else’s thoughts when they aren’t here, isn’t it?” Dorian asks.

“Is it? They’ll all be back soon. Maybe I’ll talk with him and ask if I delved too deep,” Cole says, “you should talk to him too. He’ll want to see you. He always does. Let _him_ help instead.”

Let _him_ help instead. He supposes that meant _talking_. About _feelings_. Which was something that he distinctly _disliked_ talking about, even with someone he’d come to care for as much as the Inquisitor. “Yes, well it’s not as if I was going to go out of my way to avoid-” Dorian starts, before he realizes he’s now only talking to thin air.

Of course. Well, if nothing _else_ , mild frustration was a somewhat better feeling than aimless dread. Maybe Cole really _did_ help sometimes.

* * *

Cole’s words were (perhaps rather predictably) accurate. The Inquisitor and the others arrived back at Skyhold early in the evening, while Dorian was nursing a drink (a _bottle_ ) by himself at the Herald’s Rest. The first sign that something _might_ have been amiss was when Sera came through the door, headed over to the bar, and ordered a drink. Well, at least that was the diplomatic way of putting things. It was more that she nearly ripped it off its hinges (quite an accomplishment for an elf, really), stomped over to the bar, her steps shaking the floor ( _another_ impressive accomplishment) and slammed her hands down, a rather fearsome (for Sera, at least) glare fixed firmly on her face. The other patrons were certainly staring. Not that it seemed to matter to her, of course.

“Dwarfy. One bottle,” she says to the bartender, not even bothering to look over at Dorian. 

Cabot (...not that Dorian was in here often enough to be on a first name basis with the bartender...) glares back, not even looking up from the glass that he was cleaning.

“One bottle, _please_ ,” he replies, and Dorian can’t help but think Sera’s picked a fight that she’s not going to be able to win. Never insult the bartender if you want to drink (not that he’d know _anything_ about that).

Of course, the common rules of decorum were largely ignored by Sera, even when she was in a good mood. With an exasperated scream (or was it a groan? Certain scholars might one day debate such a thing), she throws her hands up in the air, and just takes the nearest bottle that’s sitting on the bar. The bottle that Dorian happened to be drinking out of not more than one moment ago.

Well.. this wouldn’t do. But as he opens his mouth to speak, Sera immediately cuts him off.

“Shove it, Dorian,” she says, turning to leave, still with _his_ bottle of wine in hand.

“You could’ve at least waited until I said something worth shoving,” he replies, calling after her. 

Sera doesn’t even turn to face him. Without even missing a step, she holds up two fingers, before disappearing up the stairs, her steps continuing to echo across the entire tavern. Dorian is about to turn back to Cabot and order another bottle, before an audible slam echoes through the building. Maker, Dorian was almost sure half of Skyhold heard that slam.

Even though he happened to be one, it hardly took a genius to understand that something must’ve gone wrong while they were out. As… unrefined as Sera could be at times, she’d never been outright hostile to him for no reason. And if something had gone wrong while they were out, was her anger directed at the Inquisitor? What could he have done to put her in this state? Or rather, what could _she_ have done?

Fortunately, the answers to a few of his questions possibly weren’t that far behind. No sooner had Dorian gotten himself a second bottle of wine to replace the first does the Iron Bull come through the door, looking back and forth, before his eye settles on Dorian. Dorian gives him a nod of acknowledgement, which the Qunari seems to take as an invitation, because now he’s making his way over. Fantastic.

“Mind if I have a drink?” Bull asks, taking the seat next to him.

The mage is silent for a moment, as he contemplates his options. “Oh, why not,” Dorian sighs, pushing the bottle over to Bull, “at least you had the decency to ask. Just make sure not to-” But it was too late. There Bull was, drinking straight out of the bottle, which no doubt meant that Dorian would have to order a third one. 

In hindsight, he really should’ve known better.

“I take it that things didn’t go well with Sera’s Friend?” Dorian asks, as Bull continues drinking, and if he didn’t _know_ better, he’d swear that the bartender has a slight smirk on his face. Did Cabot take pleasure in seeing a man have his _second_ bottle finished while said man remained still stone cold sober?

“Yeah… you could probably say that,” Bull sighs, as he finally takes a breath and puts down the (empty) bottle, before motioning to Cabot to bring two more bottles over. _Small blessings_ , Dorian supposes.

“...What happened?” Dorian asks, not touching his new wine just yet. “Nothing life-threatening, I hope?”

“Nah, it wasn’t much worse than the usual skirmishes we get into,” Bull shrugs, taking a drink from the new bottle. “But Sera decided to take things into her own hands. Then there was an argument, some things were said, and the Boss was… Look, it’s probably better if you hear it from _him_. If I had to guess, he’ll be off with Varric right now in the main hall.”

And there it was. “Sera and the Inquisitor got into an argument?” Dorian asks, trying to figure out what it might be about. The elf and Cadash had always gotten along surprisingly well. For Cadash to _argue_ with her… 

Bull takes another drink. “Something like that. Like I said… it’s probably for the best if you talked to the Boss yourself about it. Varric’s great and all, but he’d probably appreciate someone he can talk to that _wasn’t_ there.”

“Would he?” Dorian asks, carefully observing Bull’s face. Between Bull and Cole… some people were apparently beginning to take an interest in whether or not he should speak to the Inquisitor. And it’s hardly as it he _didn’t_ want to. But a man did deserve his space, didn’t he?

“Sure. You two _are_ pretty good friends, after all.”

Dorian didn’t much care for what sounded like a distinct hint of suggestion in the qunari’s voice. Not that there should be anything to suggest. His relationship with the Inquisitor was strictly friendly, and nothing more.

“Plus, it’s probably a good idea someone makes sure that he doesn’t turn up here for a drink until Sera’s cooled down a bit more,” Bull continues, smiling what Dorian could _swear_ was a knowing smile, and that just frustrated him all the more. “You _know_ that’ll be one of the first things Varric will suggest.”

“Fine, you’ve made your point,” Dorian says as he stands up, still woefully sober. “If I’m the only man in Skyhold that can save the Inquisitor from the wrath of someone who may or may not be passed out drunk in her room right now, so be it.”

“Don’t forget your bottle,” Bull says, that _infuriating_ smile still there.

“I didn’t plan on it,” Dorian says, grabbing it off the table as he had always intended to.

 _Maker_ , could _nothing_ be simple in the South?

* * *

Sure enough, Dorian finds Cadash with Varric in the throne room, the two of them sitting at one of the tables and speaking in hushed voices, their backs mostly turned to the rest of the hall. Though he can’t make out the entirety of the conversation, he can _just_ see the Inquisitor's expression. His brow is furrowed, and the frown on his mouth is clearly visible under his mustache. It wasn’t an expression that Dorian often saw Cadash wear, discounting that time that he’d gotten him to go on an extended tirade about the dwarven homeland. He approaches slowly, bottle in hand as a clear demonstration that he comes in _peace_.

“—Buttercup’s a kid, she’s going to act like one sometimes. She didn’t really mean what she said, you know that,” he catches Varric saying, as he pats the Inquisitor’s arm.

That doesn’t seem to lift Cadash’s mood. If anything, it only serves to make his frown deepen, as he attempts to shrug off Varric’s touch. “—You think? Just like she didn’t _mean_ it when she turned the guy I was _trying_ to reason with into—”

While under normal circumstances, Dorian would love to eavesdrop, this was hardly the best time for it. He clears his throat, letting them know someone else was here. Cadash startles, turning around quickly, his brow still furrowed, though when he meets Dorian’s eyes, his expression begins to soften.

“—Dorian.”

“Who else would it be?” Dorian says, flashing the best dashing smile he can muster on such short notice.

Though his expression is softer than it had been, there’s still an edge to his friend’s voice when he speaks again. “When did you—” 

“—I just got here.” Dorian says, perhaps a little more quickly than he had intended. “An… incredibly large bird told me that after your mission, you could maybe use a drink. I thought I’d bring it upon myself to offer up my company as well.”

“I take it Buttercup’s in the tavern?” Varric asks, also turning around, and at the mention of Sera’s nickname, Cadash’s frown briefly returns.

“She is. Of course, that’s not the only reason I’m here. I thought that you might want some company that isn’t still coated in mud, and will only talk your ear off if you ask _nicely_ ,” he says, and the question of _why_ Dorian felt the need to justify himself so much to his friend is firmly planted in the back of his mind. And he _knows_ if he thinks too long on it, something that he _doesn’t_ want to think about will surely creep its way to the surface. So, he keeps talking. “I hear alcohol is an _excellent_ way to help someone forget all about his problems.” _Or rather, it’s an excellent way to help both of us forget about our problems_.

To his surprise, Cadash begins to smile. “Sure. But you can’t expect us to just drink _one_ bottle together, can you?”

His friend _did_ have a point, Dorian had to admit. Given the circumstances, this was hardly likely to be an evening of _light_ drinking.

“We can brave the tavern, if you like,” Dorian says, shrugging, even if he’d rather _not_ risk losing any more alcohol to Sera. Or making the whole situation between Sera and Cadash even worse. Whether she was shut in her room or not, if even _Bull_ was suggesting that the two be kept apart...

Cadash shakes his head. “I was thinking of trying some of the special brews that I’ve got down in the cellar.”

Dorian blinks. Well… that was _almost worse_ , wasn’t it? “By ‘special brews’, do you mean those bottles that you picked up while we’re walking around in swamps, forests, and battlefields?” 

And now Cadash is _really_ smiling. “First of all, they’re still sealed. Second, I can’t _believe_ Dorian Pavus is turning down free alcohol.”

“Some of us aren’t complete barbarians,” Dorian shoots back.

“Some of us regularly drink Fereldan ale. It can’t be any less hygienic than that swill,” Cadash replies, shrugging.

“That’s low, even for a dwarf,” Dorian says, though the smile on his face doesn’t quite match his words.

“And yet, I’m not the one who’s stooping to racist jokes, am I?” Cadash asks, the left side of his mouth quirking further into a smirk.

“Only because you and I both know your Tevinter jokes are awful,” Dorian says, before throwing up his free hand in mock defeat. “Fine, oh _Lord_ Inquisitor. Have it your way. Once we finish the wine, I suppose I’ll journey down this dark path with you.”

“Your friendship means so much to me, Dorian,” Cadash says dryly, though there is a warmth behind those green eyes. “Glad you finally agreed to drink with me after _offering_ to drink with me in the first place.”

“Leaving me alone to get shitfaced with Sparkler? Carta, I’m hurt,” Varric finally interjects, sounding about as far from hurt as he possibly could. In fact, he looked more amused than anything else.

“You’re welcome to come along as well,” Cadash says quickly. “If that’s fine with you, Dorian.”

“Oh, I suppose,” Dorian shrugs, most certainly completely indifferent to the last-minute invitation of a third party.

Varric smiles, shaking his head. “As much as I’d love to join you both, I’ve got a few letters from the Merchant’s Guild to catch up on. I’d like to keep doing this whole ‘living’ thing.”

Cadash raises an eyebrow, and it _looks_ like he wants to say something (likely about how odd it was that a man who routinely bragged about never so much looking at a Merchant’s Guild letter suddenly was worried about his paperwork), before he shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Dorian tries _not_ to notice the small thrill he feels in the pit of his stomach. It means absolutely _nothing._

* * *

The wine cellar was far from the cheeriest place in Skyhold. It was dank, not particularly well-lit, and there were a shocking amount of cobwebs he had to dust off of the bench that he sat down on. Yet, as Cadash pulled two bottles off the shelf for later on, and Dorian uncorks the wine bottle that he’s brought, he finds himself more amused than horrified. And like _many_ things involving the Inquisitor as of late, he tries his best not to think about it as the dwarf takes a seat next to him on the bench.

“You know, for a dwarf who claims to hate Orzammar, you certainly did pick one of the few places in Skyhold that might just give the Deep Roads a run for their money in dreariness,” Dorian says, taking a drink right out of the bottle.

Cadash smiles that same crooked smile of his, and Dorian doesn’t quite enjoy that familiar feeling in his stomach as the dwarf reaches to take the bottle, their fingers lightly brushing against one another. 

“Maybe, but I also picked one of the few places in Skyhold where we’re in no danger of anyone coming across us when you’re passed out on the floor,” the Inquisitor says, before taking a long drink.

“My dear _Lord_ Inquisitor Cadash, if I’m passed out on the floor, I can assure you that you’ll be right there with me,” Dorian replies, smiling, as he reaches over to grab the bottle for another drink.

“You think you can match me drink for drink? I might be shorter than you--” Cadash starts.

“—But you’re far wider than me, I know.” Dorian finishes, handing the bottle back to the dwarf, “Still, I’ve had years of practice. Don’t you worry about me keeping up.”

“I was going to say _strapping_ , not _wider_ ,” the Inquisitor replies, rolling his eyes as he takes another drink.

“Now, who’s to say that you can’t be both?” Dorian smiles.

They continue on like that for some time, passing the wine bottle back and forth as they trade barbs with one another, carefully avoiding any topics with any real _weight_ to them. Once the first bottle is finally finished, they crack open the second one, a Sun Blonde Vint-1. Dorian does the honours of taking the first drink, and shudders a little as it goes down. Cadash laughs.

“Are you going to be alright, Pavus?”

Dorian cringes, passing the bottle over to the Inquisitor, “You take a drink of this, and we’ll see how much dignity you have left, my Lord.”

Cadash just keeps laughing as he takes the bottle from Dorian’s hand. He ventures a drink of his own, and sure enough, he begins coughing.

“I rest my case.” Dorian says, trying to not sound too smug.

Cadash glares at him, but hands the bottle back. They sit in silence for some time as they drink, and although Dorian can feel his thoughts becoming a little more blurry around the edges, it suddenly strikes him to how _natural_ it feels to be with the man, even in the (albeit incredibly rare) moments where neither of them are talking. Once again, he really wasn’t sure to make of that, and thinks of the first thing that he can to break the suddenly uncomfortable silence: the reason they came down here in the first place.

In hindsight, perhaps he might’ve thought conversation topics through a little more carefully, but it was growing late, and he was on his second bottle of wine. And after all, there _was_ a clear reason they were currently in a windowless room in the depths of Skyhold and _not_ the Herald’s Rest.

“Feeling better?” Dorian asks.

Cadash sighs. “Depends on what you think ‘better’ is. Am I enjoying myself? Of course. Do I still keep thinking back to what happened when we were all out there? Most definitely.”

Dorian is silent for a moment, debating what to say next, until finally he speaks again, saying something he was almost positive he’d never say if he were a little more sober.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Dorian asks.

Cadash replies by taking one drink out of the bottle, and then another, until it’s empty. “You’re asking _me_ if I want to talk,” he says, his words slurring together as he throws Dorian over the final bottle, which appeared to be some sort of dwarven liquor. Dorian opens it with a little more difficulty than usual, and shudders as he inhales the smell.

“I’m aware of the irony. You don’t have to if you don’t-” Dorian begins.

Cadash shakes his head. “Dorian, you’re about the _only_ person I want to talk to right now. I just don’t want to ruin what has otherwise been a good night.”

“Cadash, we’ve both probably had so much to drink that there’s no way anything you say could ruin things,” Dorian says, though he cannot help but wonder if perhaps his confidence is misplaced.

For a time, Cadash says nothing, though his green eyes remain focused on Dorian with a surprising amount of intensity for a drunk man. Finally, he speaks again.

“Pass me the bottle, and I’ll tell you everything.”

The Inquisitor begins his story calm enough: The entire meeting was an ambush, set up by a nobleman who’d been overly involved with business in the area. His voice begins to rise a little as he explains how he’d only been _trying_ to understand what the man’s angle was by asking him a few questions, when out of nowhere, Sera had taken matters into his own hands. The elf had beaten him to death with nothing more than her fists and had only stopped when Cadash had personally intervened. By the time he was talking about the return trip, he sounded angrier than Dorian had ever heard him.

“And you know what she sodding said as we were riding back? ‘I don’t see what the big deal is dwarfy. Bet you killed loads of arses just like that in the Carta’. ” Even Cadash’s comical impression of Sera’s Fereldan accent doesn’t do anything to match the bitterness coming through his voice.

“She… did?” Dorian replies, and it all seems to come into place. The Inquisitor’s past life in the Carta had always been something of a sore spot for his friend, and he avoided talking about it whenever he could. For Sera to just bring it up like that...

“—It’s not even that she said it, you know. Varric was right. She’s young and doesn’t always think shit through, and me yelling at her isn’t going to help anything. You know what it was that really pissed me off?” Cadash sighs, moving closer to Dorian.

“...No?” Dorian says, taking a hefty drink of the dwarven ale this time, shuddering as it burns its way down his throat.

“It’s the fact that she was sodding _right_. Sure, I tried to do most things as cleanly as I could, talked my way through more situations than I can count, but that doesn’t change the fact that at some point the talking had to stop. It always did. Maybe I wasn’t always the one who had to do it, but I stood there and did fuck all, just like I stood there with Sera. I should’ve stepped in as soon as she started something, even if that nobleman was a complete prick, but I didn’t. I _let it happen,_ just like I did back in the Carta,” the more Cadash talks, the more resigned he sounds, “I might be a little more educated than most of them, I might be a little more _charming_ too, but at the end of the day, I know that I’m still Carta, and that’s something that I can’t ever change.”

“That’s not true,” Dorian says, rather dumbly. Such simple platitudes seemed dreadfully _inadequate_ for what his friend had just said to him, and yet, his head is _too_ fuzzy with alcohol to focus. Maker, perhaps he _had_ spoken too soon about nothing ruining the evening.

“Isn’t it? Sera’s mission wasn’t the first time that I tried to help a friend, and it ended up with someone dead. Josephine was having troubles getting her family back into Orlais for trading. Turns out, she had a contract on her head by some assholes from the House of Repose. You ever hear of them? They’re apparently group of assassins. _She_ wanted to go through the proper diplomatic channels, like she always does. And, Andraste’s tits, you know what I did instead? I let sodding Leliana take care of it, killing Maker knows how many people.”

It might’ve been the alcohol, but Dorian wasn’t exactly following his friend’s logic. “Her life was at stake and she wanted _you_ to go through proper diplomatic channels when you have a perfectly good spymaster?” Dorian asks, incredulous, “helping a dear friend hardly makes you a bad person.”

“ I didn’t even _talk_ to her about it. I just did it,” Cadash replies. “What if she was right?”

Well, this wouldn’t do at all. Dorian blinks his eyes, once, twice, and clears his head, trying his best to reply in earnest. After all, while these may just be the ramblings of a drunk man, there was no need for Cadash to pass out miserable. And if this really _was_ what he thought… they had been friends long enough for him to hear hard truths, hadn't they? “And what if she was being woefully naive? You don’t know her plan would’ve worked. Yours definitely did. For _that_ matter, taking a pragmatic approach once or twice doesn’t make you some reckless thug. You can’t save everyone from themselves, and sometimes, the best laid plans don’t always work out. That doesn’t mean you haven’t helped others.”

“Is that so?” Cadash asks, motioning for Dorian to pass the bottle back over to him. “Who exactly have I helped lately?”

“For one, you convinced me to talk to my father again,” Dorian says, entirely without thinking. “There might’ve been some blood spilled if you hadn’t been there, I’m certain.” 

Maker, of _all_ the examples he could’ve chosen, he _had_ to pick _that_ one. _Why_ had he picked _that_ one? Unfortunately, now that he’d said it, there was no going back.

“You think? Wouldn’t it have been better if we’d just left? After what you told me he’d been planning to do...” Cadash starts, and he’s using that damn _tone_ again that Dorian absolutely hates (or maybe it was the alcohol making him _remember_ that damn tone).

“...It’s not as though you asked me to forgive him,” Dorian says, cutting him off, each word all the more painful to say. “And besides, if I had wanted to say no in that moment, I know that you wouldn’t have pushed it. Whatever your words were, I made the choice to talk to him myself. In the long run, it’s probably for the best that I did. _Maybe_ things will get better, maybe they won’t, and maybe nothing will ever seem right again, but it was better talking to him than _not_ knowing. As mad as I feel like I’m going _now_ , I can only imagine what it would be like if I just kept _wondering_ what he might’ve said.”

Cadash looks him square in the eye again, before he loudly swallows.

“I thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“I don’t, not really,” Dorian admits, “but it’s not because of you. Whatever you might think about yourself when you’re drunk or sober, you’ve been… more of a friend than I could’ve ever hoped to have found in the South. More than I could’ve hoped to have found anywhere, really. And I thought you ought to know that.”

Cadash’s eyes remain fixed on his, as a slow smile begins to form under his mustache. “Whatever else _I_ might think about myself and my place here, I’m glad that it let me meet you, Dorian… And, everyone else, I suppose.” He quickly adds.

Somehow, they’d moved closer to one another. _Too_ close, some might say. Or not close enough. It would be so easy to tilt his head _just so_ , closing the gap between them and... No, that was decidedly _not_ something that he should be thinking, even after Maker knows how many drinks. _Especially_ after Maker knows how many drinks. For one thing, despite knowing well enough that Cadash had… varied interests, he had no idea if he was _genuinely_ interested, or if all their flirting was merely a part of their uniquely close friendship. And even _if_ Cadash reciprocated _tonight,_ there was no telling how his mind might change in the morning, once both their heads were slightly clearer. It really was for the best that Dorian brush all those thoughts aside. Their friendship, after all, was worth far more than that, wasn’t it? Was that not what this evening was about?

The moment passes, and they return to their last bottle, talking late into the night before they finally fall asleep side by side, two uniquely _close_ friends, and nothing more. While the morning might bring terrible hangovers, and the need to reconcile with one particularly angry and vulgar elf, neither of them would have to worry about the foundations of their friendship being irreparably damaged by any feelings towards one another. 

Or so Dorian would tell himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One thing I'll always appreciate about Dragon Age is how real all the characters feel. I hope that I've done them justice, as this chapter actually has a few more people other than just Cadash and Dorian. :)


	5. undue rumours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally come to a boiling point with the UST, and after far too long, Dorian and Cadash have to confront the truth about their friendship.

By Dorian’s careful assessment, there were a certain number of benefits to being on a next-to first name basis with the Inquisitor (the “next-to” part coming from Cadash’s charmingly endearing distaste for his first name). For one thing, no one had tried to spit on him for _months_ , and that could only be a positive sign. For another, Cadash had proven himself time and again to be the best kind of company that one could hope for. Of all the things that Dorian had expected to find in the South, a best friend had not exactly been one of them, and yet it had now gotten to the point that he could hardly imagine his life without the dwarf in it.

The one thing that he was growing rather tired of however, was the constant chorus of rumours and speculation about the nature of their relationship.

It really shouldn’t bother him. After all, Dorian had heard plenty of rumours about the Inquisitor ever since he had first arrived. Some said he’d once seduced a Shaper in Orzammar on a smuggling job (false; Cadash had told him it had only been a member of the Servant Caste that _served_ the Shaperate), that he was next in line to rule the Carta (also false; while his father had been clan head at one point, direct hereditary succession hadn’t even been a guideline in the organization), and that he’d even once offered the Grand Cleric of Ostwick his hand in marriage (apparently that one was true, and involved a large sum of money, copious amounts of alcohol, and a single piece of cheese). 

That was also to say nothing of the rumours that often sprung up about the Inquisitor and his ‘Inner Circle’. First, he’d been deftly trying to woo Lady Josephine. Next, he’d been involved in an unrequited love affair with Varric Tethras. Dorian was only the latest in a long line of non-existent lovers. It was idle gossip, and if anything, he should be _thrilled_ that he was being talked about for something other than his nationality, and joking about the more outrageous tales with his closest friend.

And yet... the rumours were hardly a source of amusement. He had never once broached the subject with Cadash for one particular reason that he was loathe to admit to himself. Still, it was becoming harder and harder to deny, even in stone cold sobriety: He had feelings for the Inquisitor that extended a good deal beyond friendship. 

If he were being brutally honest, he’d been feeling that way for weeks, possibly even months. Not that it made a single bit of difference in the long run, of course. He was hardly going to ruin a perfectly good friendship over something as idiotic as _feelings_. Unnecessary sentimentaliy had always complicated things far too much for his liking in Tevinter, so he avoided developing them whenever he could. He saw no reason for that to change in the South. Dorian’s experience had taught him that it was far better to ignore the situation until it went away. And it _would_. Or at least it would have been easier to ignore the situation had it not been for the persistent rumours, each more tawdry than the last.

Yes, Dorian Pavus found himself in an extremely frustrating situation. If he asked to spend less time with Cadash, the dwarf was liable to think there was something wrong and that could lead to a conversation he’d rather not have. If he kept going on as they had, there was a distinct possibility that Cadash would catch wind of the rumours, and that could also lead to a conversation that Dorian would rather not have. And if he asked to spend more time with Cadash… clearly that would only make the entire matter _worse_ (though at this point, he’s not entirely sure they could spend more time together), and once again it certainly would lead to a conversation that Dorian would rather not have. Given all the choices seemed to be leading to the same outcome, it was clear that it would just be easier to stay the proverbial course for the time being. And so, he resigned himself to quiet frustration, hoping that both the feelings or the rumours (preferably both) would pass quickly and he could carry on his friendship with the Inquisitor as he always had.

At least, that had been his plan until Josephine had asked him for help with _dancing._

In retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised, given the day’s events. With the Ball at the Winter Palace quickly approaching, Josephine had taken it upon herself to assess the “essential skills” of each member of the Inquisition. In theory, that meant making sure that those venturing into the (not-so) metaphorical lion’s den were well armed with all the skills that they needed. In practice, what that amounted to was making sure that everyone knew the proper way to bow to each rank of nobility (“Under pain of death. I am _not_ exaggerating, Sera,” Josephine said, with a glare more fearsome than Dorian had ever seen from her before), which appetizers to eat in which order (“For Andraste’s sake, do not take the ham as your first or last dish”), and perhaps most importantly (according to Josephine, at least) assessing their dancing skills (“Some Orlesians believe you can tell almost everything you need to know about someone by their dancing. One of them might even be Empress Celene herself.”).

Of course, there were some that needed little more than a small refresher on the intricacies of the Orlesian court. Dorian found himself in this group (along with Vivienne and Leliana, of course, as well as Varric, when he felt like putting in any effort) given that being a mage of a _certain status_ from Tevinter meant that he had dealt with his fair share of courtly intrigues, not to mention his impeccable dancing skills. Josephine had mentioned to him that none of that might matter given Orlais’ opinion on Tevinter, but Dorian was already used to being an impeccably mannered pariah. No need for that to change now. There were others (Sera and Cole most noticeably) that could not be trusted to _bow_ without giving offense (assuming they even understood how to). There were even those that one would expect to be in the latter category, but managed not to be complete disasters (Bull and Blackwall, shockingly enough. Apparently a distaste for hygiene didn’t mean a complete ignorance of it. Blackwall managing to exceed all expectations had been particularly costly, as Dorian had bet Varric fifty royals that he’d fall flat on his face. Varric had been only too happy to remind him that was the _third_ bet that he now owed him for).

Cadash had proven himself to be somewhere in the middle. He managed to remember more Orlesian court protocols than Cassandra (not that it was difficult), but he lacked a certain refinement. Josephine, however, hadn’t been overly concerned about that (“Not to worry, my lord. Your roguish reputation that we’ve cultivated will make up for any slight shortcomings. Ah… pun not intended”). 

No, the issue had come when they were practicing the dancing. 

When his partner had been Scout Harding (briefly back at Skyhold from places unknown) he’d managed to do shockingly well, with his skill being on par with Varric’s own (“Don’t get cocky, Carta; I always hated formal Merchant Guild events,” Varric had quipped). However, once his partner had changed to Lady Josephine… certain issues began to arise. The source of the problem was the fact that Harding was slightly shorter than the Inquisitor, while he only went up to Josephine’s chest. This led to some extremely awkward moments where every time he attempted to lead, he nearly found himself tangled in her legs, and when Josephine attempted to lead him, Cadash nearly collided with her chest in the most awkward manner possible. It might’ve been downright comical if the poor dwarf hadn’t looked so obviously distressed, his expression a mix between embarrassment and frustration. By the nineteenth attempt, he’d finally thrown up his hands, and moved to walk out of the room.

“My Lord!” Josephine had called after him, which seemed to be enough to make him stop and turn to face her (if only for a moment), “you mustn’t—”

“—I mustn’t _what_ , Josephine?” Cadash interrupted, irritation rising in his voice, “bury my head into your breasts? Because that’s where this is going if we keep it up any longer, whether we want it to happen or not.”

Someone (Sera, most likely) tried to suppress a snort, which echoed through the now-uncomfortably silent chamber. Meanwhile, Josephine hardly looked amused at all, and instead moved toward the Inquisitor, attempting to block his escape. 

“—You were _not_ that close to burying your head in my—” Josephine began, valiantly putting in her best effort to maintain a dignified tone despite the… subject matter, “my—”

“—Yes he was!” Sera interjected, saying what he was sure most of them were thinking, while Josephine cringed. Once again, Cadash made to leave, but the Ambassador took another step forward, placing her hand on his shoulder.

“— _Thank you Sera_.” Josephine continued, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, “regardless… it is far better that it is _me_ , instead of a Marquise or, Maker forbid, the Grand Duchess herself.”

Her paltry reassurances didn’t do anything to alleviate the situation, and only seemed to exacerbate the issue as Cadash’s eyes widened in horror. “—I’m not dancing with the sodding Grand Duchess.”

“You might not have a choice, my Lord,” Josephine sighed, “as I said, while dancing is often a _metaphor_ for different steps in the Game, it also takes on a more literal meaning at times. If we cannot be reasonably certain that your skills aren’t at least passable—”

“—You’ll work your magic, I’m sure. Tell them that it’s a common dwarven greeting, or a sign of respect for humans we particularly trust. Better yet, just remind them that the Inquisitor, for all his smiles and pleasantries is, at his core, still just a _common thug_ , and can’t be expected to fully function in polite society.” And with that, Cadash shrugged off Josephine’s touch and finally made his way through the door, leaving the rest of them standing there speechless, all casting gazes at each other as if to dare _someone_ to speak first. 

“Well…” Josephine finally said, throwing herself on the proverbial sword and cutting the tension, “I suppose that will be all for today. If I require any of you for… future instruction, I shall let you know.”

“—But you said that—” someone (likely Cole, but one couldn’t always be sure) tried to begin.

“—As I said, _that will be all_ ,” Josephine repeated, her tone brokering little argument, even for someone who might otherwise _want_ to begin bringing up all sorts of uncomfortable topics, because it’s hardly like spirits have any sense of privacy, _isn’t that right, Cole_? And so, one by one, they had all awkwardly filed out of the room. However, right as he was about to leave with Varric, Josephine stopped him, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.

“—Dorian, do you have a moment?”

 _Just my luck_. Briefly, he glanced over at Varric, who merely gave him a shrug, before turning back to Josephine.

“Don’t keep Sparkler for too long, Ruffles. I still haven’t gotten the chance to talk to him about his payment plan for his last three bets,” Varric said with a playful wink, before walking away at a brisk pace. Dorian was half tempted to call after him with a witty retort, but decided against it. Josephine clearly wasn’t in the mood for games, after all. For that matter, neither was he, so he supposed that it all worked out in the end.

“Is something wrong, Lady Ambassador?” He asked, before quickly correcting himself, “other than the obvious, I suppose.” _Such as our illustrious leader fleeing the scene in frustration_.

“Actually, I was hoping that I might talk to you about the obvious. That is, I thought we might talk about Inquisitor Cadash,” Josephine said, and _Maker_ this was going to be one of those conversations, wasn’t it? As if the day weren’t already uncomfortable enough. “I know that the two of you are close—”

It _was_ one of those conversations. _Perfect_. _Just perfect_.

“—And you’re about to advise me that such an entanglement is unwise given who we both are. Well, you needn’t worry about that, as rumours of our nightly trysts are greatly exaggerated.”

“—Master Pavus—” Josephine attempted to interject, but Dorian paid her little heed. _Of all the_...

“—And quite frankly, I would think that you, of all people would realize that most rumours have little basis in fact. Did you know that only a scant few months ago, this same gossip had you and him—” 

“— _Dorian_ ,” Josephine interrupted, this time the frustration in her voice plain to hear. “This has _nothing_ to do with such ridiculous hearsay.”

Well. This was embarrassing. Unfortunately, rather than an apology, all he could muster was an uncharacteristically sheepish “oh”.

“As I was _saying_ , due to the fact that the two of you are such close friends, I thought _you_ might practice the dances with him. Not only does he seem to listen to your suggestions, but given that you are a man, there might not be the same… difficulties that we’ve had today.” _Typical Josephine,_ Dorian thought, _always playing the diplomat, even when she’s talking about a dwarf nearly burying his head in her cleavage._ “No doubt he would be more comfortable with you than I.”

Dorian considered opening his mouth in protest, but unfortunately, Josephine _did_ raise a decent enough point. If Inquisitor Cadash required more practice with humans, a man would be the most sensible option. Not to mention, it made perfect sense to turn to one of his closest friends in the Inquisition who just so happened to be human, male, and educated in courtly matters. Of course, this was _hardly_ going to help the little problem that he was attempting to avoid. However, if he turned Josephine down, she’d likely have to ask him for a _reason_ , and then he would have to attempt to explain his reasoning to her, thus potentially having to confront the feelings that he’d been attempting to avoid, which she would no doubt tell Cadash about.

Really, it was better to just go for the path of least resistance. 

* * *

And so, _that_ was how Dorian Pavus found himself roaming Skyhold, once again dodging Varric, who’d been waiting just outside the diplomat’s chambers with his subtle threats to send tiny debt collectors after him (or, he could only assume that’s what he meant when he said that he’d have to take “more extreme measures”), looking for the Inquisitor against his better judgement. These inconvenient “feelings” would most certainly pass, uncomfortably close proximity to his friend or no.

Mercifully, he didn’t have much time to contemplate said inconvenient feelings, because the source of them is sitting in the relative emptiness of the courtyard, wearing an expression that was somewhere in between contemplative and ‘frustrated to the point that he might be liable to take his vengeance on some poor unsuspecting potted plant’. Dorian takes a few steps towards him, before settling down next to him on the bench, a nonchalant grin on his face.

“—Fine day, isn’t it? I can see why you wanted to storm out of Josephine’s office now. Even I have to admit the weather isn’t too horrible for the South.”

“What can I say? I figured Josephine could use a few theatrics to liven up her morning,” Cadash sighs, his expression not even coming close to matching the lighthearted tone he was attempting. “On top of nearly falling directly into her chest at any given moment, of course.” 

“You weren’t doing _that_ badly,” Dorian says, and Cadash immediately raises an eyebrow. “Well, that is to say, you weren’t doing _that_ badly until you had to dance with a _human_.” He quickly corrects himself.

“Which I’m sure will be a great help when I meet the countless dwarves among the Orlesian nobility,” Cadash snidely remarks. “It’s better for Josephine to just try to smooth things over _now_ , so I don’t humiliate all of us the second I walk into the Winter Palace.”

Dorian makes a face, turning his nose up. _Why_ the man is so ashamed of an easily correctable issue when so little seems to get under his skin is really anyone’s guess. Or rather, it’s something that he suspects comes from his less than savoury past. Either way, this wouldn’t do. “Self-pity doesn’t suit you, _Lord Inquisitor_. You just need a little bit more practice. And not _nearly_ as much as you seem to think.” 

“Really?” Cadash says, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

“Am I the sort of man to lie?”

“...Do you really want me to answer that question?” the dwarf remarks, raising an eyebrow.

Ex-Carta or no, the Inquisitor was being _far_ too suspicious for his own good.

“Am I the sort of man to lie to my _best friend_?” Dorian says without thinking fully of the implications of his comment.

“Best friend.” Again, Cadash’s eyes widen. “Did Josephine put you up to this?” the dwarf asks, and Dorian feels a strange knot in the pit of his stomach that he’s _really_ trying too hard not to think about. Maker, _why_ did he say such a pointlessly _sentimental_ thing? It was hardly something that _needed_ to be vocalized, and now here it was, with the Inquisitor likely thinking that he was being _incredibly_ insincere.

Still, Dorian doesn’t let any of that show on his face, instead responding in the most nonchalant manner that he can, waving a hand in the air dismissively. 

“Perhaps. But running into my chest is slightly less likely to cause a detrimental scandal.”

Cadash is silent, green eyes fixed solidly on the floor, before he returns the smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, which have a strange glimmer of something Dorian cannot quite place behind them.

“Running into _your_ chest? You mean to tell me that Josephine managed to shame Lord Dorian Pavus into helping out the hapless Inquisitor with his _dancing_ skills? What sort of blackmail is she holding over you?”

Dorian rolls his eyes. “Once again, self-pity is not an attractive look on you, Lord Cadash. I’ll have you know that I mean it when I say you’re not beyond salvation, and I fully intend to prove it.”

The Inquisitor’s mouth begins to quirk into a smirk, a gesture far more sincere than the half-hearted smile that he had previously worn. “How do you propose that you’ll do that, exactly?”

Dorian laughs nonchalantly in the best way that he can, holding out a hand without entirely thinking (funny how acting without thinking had started to become a rather unfortunate habit for Dorian when it came to his friend. And by ‘funny’, he meant ‘potentially humiliating even to a man with mercifully little shame’). “Come now, Inquisitor. You’re hardly a stupid man. By _dancing,_ of course.”

For just a moment, Cadash seems genuinely taken aback, as his eyes shift around the courtyard. “...Right here?”

Dorian carefully considers his options once again. If he stays here in the middle of a common area in Skyhold, people will most certainly gossip about the dreaded _Tevinter Mage_ and the _Herald of Andraste_ that he’s ensnared with his shocking deviancy on full display. But, if they go somewhere more private, there would be no doubt that _more_ rumours would begin to surface about the _depraved_ acts that they were engaged in behind closed doors. Neither option exactly would do anything to alleviate the situation and make it any easier with the Inquisitor, but only _one_ option would serve to make matters even worse.

 _Better that they see we have nothing to hide_. 

“Can you think of a better place?” Dorian asks, face betraying _none_ of the incredibly inconvenient emotional turmoil that he’s been desperately trying to bury for far longer than he would care to admit.

“Fine. But you owe me two bottles of Vint-1 after this.” Cadash answers.

“Two bottles?! Maker, you’re almost worse than Varric.”

“Maybe, but I might still share with you. _If_ you ask nicely,” the dwarf shoots back with a wink, and Dorian almost feels like he used to, when things were slightly less complicated and he was _not_ too fond of Inquisitor Cadash for his own good.

With far more care than the mage expected from a warrior that swung around a greatsword bigger than he was, Cadash reaches up to place one hand on Dorian’s upper arm, and the other around his waist. He does his best not to think of just how acutely aware he is of the dwarf’s touch, even through layers of clothing, as he places one hand on Cadash’s shoulder, and the other on his lower arm. Again, his thoughts betray him, as he can’t help but perhaps squeeze his shoulder a little too tightly, memorizing the feeling of his muscles underneath the shirt.

Cadash swallows loudly, shaking him back to the task at hand, and once again, he can’t help but think what a monumentally _awful_ idea this was. Especially not when his feelings for the other man just wouldn’t subside. And their friendship had been going along _so well_ too. Still, he had started this, Josephine had asked him to do it, and he’d be damned if he didn’t finish it. After all, he was a _grown man_ , not some lovesick boy.

“...I’m not going to object to just standing around, but I doubt the Orlesians will be so kind.” Cadash says breaking the silence, the side of his mouth quirking into a positively _endearing_ smile.

Mercifully, that was _just_ enough to distract Dorian from his more… intrusive thoughts. 

“Just making sure that you’ll be able to keep up, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian shoots back, “besides, if _you_ want to take charge of the situation, shouldn’t it be you that’s leading?”

For just a moment, Dorian can swear that Cadash looks _embarrassed_ of all things (though given the fact that they _were_ doing this in a highly public place, perhaps that wasn’t so surprising), before he nods his head, a look of determination flashing in those Fade-green eyes. One step… two steps… three steps… and they’re moving, albeit far more stiffly than he’d been with Scout Harding, or even _Josephine_. Unprompted, a few truly idiotic thoughts float to the forefront of Dorian’s mind. _Maker, he’s petrified_. Was it his current choice in dance partner? Did he suspect—

No. That _obviously_ had nothing to do with it at all, given the fact that upon closer observation, the Inquisitor was so incredibly focused on their _feet,_ likely trying to match every step that his dance partner was making. 

“Not bad, if you’re planning to lead a march with the Grand Duke,” Dorian dryly remarks.

Cadash looks up, frustration once again evident on his face, and Dorian nearly collides with him as he abruptly stops.

_Well, this is just brilliant, isn’t it? Here you are making everything somehow worse._

“Relax, Inquisitor. Know that _you_ know the steps. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that your partner was taller than you. Keep your eyes focused on mine, and you might just get through this with your dignity intact.” the mage says, attempting to meet his friend’s eyes.

“I’m dangerously close to asking for a _third_ bottle, Pavus,” the Inquisitor shoots back, though he noticeably relaxes as they begin to move again, following Dorian’s instructions to fix his green eyes firmly on Dorian’s own. 

Yet again, he cannot help but think that he should have thought this whole situation through a little better. Even so, he attempts his best reassuring smile, and in turn, Cadash nods his head. As they sway from side to side, he can feel the tension slowly releasing from his friend’s shoulders as their eyes remain fixed together. In turn, Dorian _himself_ starts to feel the tension leaving him as he leans into the Inquisitor’s touch more than he really should. If he were a younger and less jaded man, he might be able to pretend for just a moment that there was something _more_ to this than just aiding a friend. He might be able to pretend that there was something more to the way that Cadash’s breath hitched for just a second. Something that _didn’t_ have to do with his fear of running into his friend’s chest.

_...What have you gotten yourself into, Dorian?_

They continue the dance at a leisurely pace, and Cadash’s movements begin to seem a little more natural. The barest ghost of a smile begins to cross his friend’s lips, though it fades just as quickly when his eyes finally break contact with Dorian’s, focused on something.

“...Looks like we have an audience,” the Inquisitor says softly, before looking back to his friend, as if he’s anticipating him to say… something.

Though he hardly needs to look for himself, he does nevertheless. _Of course_. A small crowd of about fifteen or so had gathered around the edges of the courtyard, not so subtly watching them as they carried on with their dance. It was hardly unexpected, as he’d been the one who’d _insisted_ that they dance here because he _had nothing to hide_ , and yet… he still feels far too exposed for his liking.

“So we do,” Dorian replies, like an utter fool.

Cadash’s brows furrow, as he seems to weigh his options. “...Sod it, let’s give them a show,” he sighs, with a strange mix of amusement and resignation in his voice, “I’ll have dozens more eyes on me in Orlais, so if it’s better to drop _you_ flat on your ass _here_ than doing the same to the Duchess of so-and-so _there_.” 

_Wait..._

“Flat on my ass?” Dorian asks, not entirely sure if the sudden dread he’s feeling is a change for the better, “Lord Inquisitor Cadash—”

“Relax, _Lord_ Pavus. Wasn’t it you who said if I kept my eyes on you that it would all be fine?” the Inquisitor smiles with a disgustingly endearing mix of reassurance as he repeats Dorian’s own words.

“I suppose I did volunteer for this—” the mage starts, though finds himself unable to say much more as the Inquisitor pulls him into (what must look like) a rather impressive dip.

Thankfully, Dorian did not fall flat on his ass. But perhaps it might’ve been easier if he had.

Their faces were mere inches from each other. He could feel Cadash’s breath against his own, slightly sped up from the dance, and his own heart is pounding far more than it really should be. Dorian’s eyes momentarily flicker down to his friend’s lips. If he only shifted ever so slightly… took even a _small risk_ …

 _You’ve lost your mind, Dorian. Utterly lost your mind,_ the far more sensible part of his brain screams. The part of his mind that would remind him _not_ to jeopardize a perfectly good friendship.

After all, he shouldn’t be thinking _any_ of this now. Especially when he was completely sober and _especially_ not in full view of the sizable audience that they gathered. _So much for ‘having nothing to hide’ Dorian_ , he thinks ruefully to himself. Cadash’s lips part for just a moment, as if he was going to say something, but instead, he pulls Dorian out of the dip and back to his feet. All at once, he feels both the overwhelming urge to pull away from the dwarf, and the foolishly idiotic hope that they remain as they are, even with all these watchful eyes fixed on them.

“Dorian…” Cadash starts, and regardless of what it is that his friend is about to say, this is the _last_ place that he wants to have any sort of conversation.

“–As I said, Inquisitor. You know the steps. You just need to concentrate, and I know you’ll be more than adequate,” Dorian cuts him off, giving his friend what could only be an incredibly half hearted smile. 

“Dorian…” Cadash starts again, and once more, Dorian doesn’t let him finish his sentence. 

“...If you would like more practice, you know where to find me.” 

* * *

Some time after he had returned to his usual haunt in Skyhold’s library, trying to look remotely interested in a particularly dull treatise concerning a member of the Valmont family’s obsession with Wyverns and _hoping_ to briefly forget about the increasingly difficult problem of his inconvenient _feelings_ for a certain green eyed dwarf, a distinctly _uninvited_ and unwelcome face had approached Dorian.

“Master Pavus, a word?” 

Oh, because this was _just_ what he needed. _More judgement_. The Revered Mother Giselle had never been fond of him for one reason or another, most of them going back to his connections to Tevinter (to say nothing of how she had, intentionally or not, involved herself in the whole sordid affair concerning his family). Judging by her expression, it was nothing that he was going to _like_ to hear. 

“I imagine you’ll have more than just a single word for me, Your Reverence,” Dorian begins, waving a rather dismissive hand for talking with someone of her rank from the Chantry, “in fact, I dare say that you’ve already gotten at least a dozen, all in quick succession.”

The woman smiles for just a moment, through her eyes and pursed lips betray no joy behind them.

“I suppose that you are correct. Either way, I was hoping that I might speak with you—”

“—We’re speaking right now—” Dorian attempts to interject with another lethal dose of wit, though is stopped by Mother Giselle, who seems to be a depressingly quick learner when it comes to getting a word in edgewise (maybe he should’ve expected it from an Orlesian).

“—On the subject of Lord Inquisitor Cadash. In particular, your… recent display in the courtyard.”

 _Oh, of_ course _that’s why she’s here_ , Dorian bitterly thinks to himself. _So much for ‘nothing to hide’, Dorian. You of all people should know that once rumours start, they’ll just keep going and going until the Maker himself sees fit to reprimand you_.

“I was not aware that helping a friend with his dancing steps was cause for alarm in the Southern Chantry, Your Reverence,” the mage replies, attempting to appear unfazed as he contemplates leaning on the bookshelf before realizing it was too far away for it not to look awkward.

“It would not be cause for alarm if it was the first time you curried favour with His Worship in such a public place. No doubt you’ve heard the rumours-”

“—A Revered Mother trading in idle gossip? Surely that goes against your vows,” Dorian shoots back. While far from his most snappy comeback, he hopes it would be enough to shut the woman up.

If only he were so lucky. “—Rumours that, which for your sake I hope _are_ untrue,” Mother Giselle continues undeterred, “though your continued presence at his side does little to dissuade them.”

“What exactly _are_ you implying, Your Ever-so-holy Reverence?” Dorian asks, doing a poor job of hiding the anger in his voice. Were he not already an utter disappointment to his parents, he certainly would be _now_ for letting an… adversary see even a moment of weakness.

“I am implying nothing, Master Pavus. I am _stating_ that to those on the outside, it appears that you, a Mage from Tevinter, have an undue amount of influence on the Inquisitor. Many have seen how the two of you speak for hours—”

 _Oh sweet Andraste…_ “—And now _talking_ is a crime for the _dreaded_ Tevinter. What _will_ come next? Are you going to cast your suspicious gaze on me the next time I pick the wrong chamberpot to relieve myself in?” It takes all of his willpower _not_ to throw his arms up in the air and make a scene.

(Or any more of a scene than he was already making.)

“I only _ask_ ,” the Revered Mother says, her voice betraying more edge than is really befitting a woman from Orlais, or a member of the Chantry, “you consider how _your_ actions appear, given your origins. I don’t know what you think you’re doing.”

 _Neither do I_ , Dorian can’t help but think, but instead he replies: “I’m being clucked at by a hen, evidently.”

“Do _not_ play the fool with me, young man,” Mother Giselle shoots back.

“If I wanted to play the fool, I could be rather more convincing, I assure you.” He’s well aware that he’s making the situation worse, but at the moment he cannot quite bring himself to care.

“Your glib tongue does you no credit.”

“You’d be surprised at the credit my tongue gets me, your Reverence,” Dorian says, a mirthless smirk playing at his lips. 

“—It’s true, Mother Giselle. He’s the only man in Skyhold that manages to make me seem taciturn when we’re together. Really, we should all give him and his tongue _more_ credit, if anything,” a familiar voice says from behind him, in the tone he uses when he thinks that he’s being terribly clever (and makes Dorian’s heart skip a beat in a dreadfully frustrating manner).

 _Of all the men_ … _Well, this is just perfect, isn’t it?_

“Oh, I—” Mother Giselle starts, suddenly sounding much more reserved than she had mere moments before, before the Inquisitor cuts her off, making his way into both their fields of vision, affable and charming as he always is.

“—If you’re wondering why I stopped by, Varric enlisted me as his unofficial debt collector for his uncollected bets,” Cadash says with a slight grin as he taps Dorian on the arm, before his face turns a bit more somber, “Not to mention, Dorian also offered me an open invitation for more practice with my dancing, but it looks like he’s already found himself another partner. I hope you don’t mind too much if I cut in. What’s going on here, exactly?”

“It seems as if the revered mother is concerned about my ‘undue influence’ over you,” Dorian says without thinking, but before he can really think too much about Cadash questioning further on _what_ this ‘undue influence’ actually was and _hey Pavus why don’t you tell more me more about this,_ Mother Giselle replies.

“It is just concern, Your Worship. You must know how this looks.”

The Inquisitor’s expression is difficult to read.

“You might need to spell it out, my dear,” Dorian chimes in, crossing his arms as he once again cannot quite figure out _why_ he is encouraging this line of discussion.

“This man is of Tevinter, his presence at your side, the rumours alone—”

To Dorian’s utter shock, Cadash smiles, a hint of mischief appearing in those green eyes. “Oh? I’d like to hear what these rumours are, exactly.”

 _Would you, Cadash? Would you_ really _?_ Dorian thinks to himself. It would seem that in the end there was going to be little that would avoid _this_ line of questioning.

Mother Giselle gazes at the floor before speaking, clearly picking her words carefully. “I… could not repeat them, your Worship.”

“Repeat them? So you’ve shared them before?” Cadash says. His tone is still affable enough, but Dorian can detect the _hint_ of resentment to it, similar to when someone brings up his past as a ‘Carta thug’ one too many times.

It seems that Mother Giselle also realizes she may have crossed a line. Once again, she glances down to the floor, then to Dorian, and finally to Inquisitor Cadash.

“I see… I meant no disrespect, Inquisitor, only to ask after this man’s intentions. If you feel he is without ulterior motive, then I humbly beg forgiveness of you both,” and with that, she offers him a courteous bow and takes her leave.

Dorian waits until they can no longer hear her footsteps, before breaking the silence.

“Well... that’s something.” 

“This sort of thing happens often, does it?” Cadash asks, smoothing out his mustache, “with so-called ‘important’ people, that is? It still seems strange to think of myself as anyone ‘important’, but I guess stranger shit has happened.”

Dorian uncrosses his arms, giving the Inquisitor a playful tap on the shoulder that lingers just a second longer than it really should. “Oh, it happens more than anyone tells you. No one knows their own reputation.” 

“Until someone helpfully informs them,” the Inquisitor replies, rolling his eyes. 

“There is that. She meant well, if there’s any concern,” Dorian sighs. The Southern Chantry was already jumpy enough about magic. As much as he would rather not admit it, he _could_ understand how certain rumours running rampant _might_ appear to those who had little will or intention to think for themselves.

Such was life.

“Did she? I could’ve sworn she was trying to alienate one of my closest friends from me right after he rather helpfully made sure I didn’t make a complete ass of myself in Orlais,” the Inquisitor says, brow furrowing. It was a strange sort of relief to Dorian, to know that regardless of what was said, he still held the man’s good graces.

...But at what cost to the Inquisitor’s reputation? As a _friend_ , he ought to at least clarify things.

“She had her reasons.”

“I can’t imagine what they might be.”

Dorian considers his options for some time. If he doesn’t say anything, he preserves their friendship until Cadash inevitably catches wind of it and they have an awkward conversation. Or he does it now and gets it over with, and they either laugh about it later, or awkwardly avoid one another.

In the end, he decides that he might as well just get it over with. He’d delayed the inevitable for long enough.

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but the assumption in some corners is that you and I are… intimate,” he says, the words embarrassingly difficult to get off of his tongue.

Cadash is silent for a moment, green eyes staring intently at a spot on the floor, and Dorian can’t help but wonder if _this_ is it. This is where their uniquely close friendship ends, and they go about on a strictly _professional_ basis. Oh, he may _think_ that he knows that his closest friend ( _Maker_... the dwarf really _is_ his closest friend…) is the sort of man to care about what others think of his personal relationships, but experience has taught him that those you care about the most sometimes have the most _unique_ ways of disappointing you. He might _know_ that Cadash is different, and yet—

“That’s not the worst assumption they could have, is it?” Cadash finally says. Dorian is almost convinced he’s misheard him. _Is he implying…_ There had always been a certain flirtatious edge to their friendship, but _this_...

“I don’t know. _Is_ it?” Dorian replies, in his usual tone, as though he had _not_ just been considering the implications this held for their friendship, and how… difficult it would be to lose that. As though he wasn’t just _now_ admitting to himself that far from it being such a terrible assumption, it might very well be _exactly_ what he wants, and that if he’s _really_ being honest, he’s felt that way for far longer than he’d like to admit.

“Do you always answer a question with a question?” His friend says, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. Well, if nothing else, _this_ was familiar enough ground. How easy it would be for the both of them to slide back into old habits? To go back to talking in circles as they always had? Under most other circumstances, he really _could_ talk with the Inquisitor about even the most inane of topics for hours, but there was something that he needed to know right at this moment.

“Would you like me to answer in some other fashion?” Dorian asks, this time meeting his friend’s eyes. 

“If you’re capable.”

Maker, was _that_ a nervous laugh? He’s never seen the Cadash look quite so unsure of himself, and for the life of him he can’t quite figure out why. Though he wasn’t one for bragging, the man had never really shied away from stories about his past lovers, and he certainly never had an issue before when it came to flirting. Was he intentionally _trying_ to be difficult now? Was there some other reason behind his hesitation? Was it because he genuinely cared about him, and didn’t want to ruin what had turned out to be one of the best friendships that he’d had in his life?

Well. Dorian could ask himself a million questions (some of which, he suspects would _only_ reveal certain facts about himself that he didn’t wish to dwell on), or actually _do_ something about the entire situation. And so he finally closes the gap between the two of them, places one hand underneath his friend’s chin, slightly tilting his head up, before pressing their lips together.

At first, the kiss is far from perfect. His neck is craning down at an awkward angle, his nose almost bumps into Cadash’s, and their teeth click together as the dwarf makes a startled noise (though, in Dorian’s defence, this _is_ his first time kissing a dwarf… a _dwarf_ … _Maker_ , if Maevaris ever found out, he’d never hear the end of it). But then, Cadash tilts his head up just so, places a guiding hand on Dorian’s back, and suddenly things are going _that_ much better. Dorian parts his lips, and _oh_ , does the Inquisitor have a rather impressive amount of skill with that tongue of his. All things considered, he had to applaud Cadash’s miraculous ability to salvage what might have been a shamefully mediocre moment.

They’re both breathing heavily once they finally break apart, with Cadash still resting his hand on Dorian’s lower back, but nevertheless, Dorian tries to do his best nonchalant shrug. “...‘If you’re capable’. The nonsense you speak.”

“...You realize this makes the rumours somewhat true?” Cadash replies in turn, his lopsided grin looking distinctly less roguish than usual as he tries to catch his breath.

Dorian shrugs. “Evidently. We might have to explore the full truth of them later, in private.”

The Inquisitor chuckles, pulling Dorian back down into another kiss, this one far better than even the first. It briefly occurs to Dorian that this all might end in catastrophic failure. That their friendship may yet be damaged beyond repair once they both had their fun and this was over and done with. 

Even so, he foolishly wants to believe that it might all actually work out this time, just for this one moment.

* * *

**Afterward:**

A week after his “conversation” with Cadash in the library, a letter arrives for Dorian from Tevinter:

_My Dear Dorian,_

_A mutual friend informed me that you have just begun a vigorous fact finding mission with the Inquisitor. I can only assume that’s why you’ve been too busy to write. Still, I wish that I had not heard about this from a second hand source, given my extensive first-hand experience with the dwarven people that you were often only too happy and amused to point out to me back in Tevinter. I can only assume that as you’ve recently discovered their merits for yourself, you will be writing me back a full apology. While I will be eagerly awaiting it, in the meantime, I have some advice that I think you might appreciate._

_Despite their short stature, dwarven men have a surprising amount to offer in other areas, if you have not yet discovered. Some might think this is a well-kept secret, but I’ve found that if asked, they are more than happy to give you a full demonstration. And what a demonstration that it might be. They are certainly a hardy people, and you would be shocked at how long they can carry on without so much as a break. And then there’s the magic, my dear. Their resistance makes for some fascinating cross-cultural explorations. I always found that a little bit of storm magic mixed with some frost did the trick nicely._

_I wish you luck with this very worthwhile endeavor, as maintaining close ties with our oldest allies (even if this particular one apparently has little interest in his heritage, according to certain rumours) is essential. And do make sure to pay Varric back for your last three bets. While I don’t like to question the motives of family, I can only assume that’s why he felt the need to write to me about your personal affairs._

_Your Friend,_

_Maevaris_

He reads over the letter once, twice, and then three times, mind rushing with far more questions than it really should be.

He was (to borrow a page out of Cassandra’s book) going to _kill_ Varric.

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some in-game dialogue in this chapter, but I'm hoping it blended in well enough.

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to Toshi_Nama, CleverBlackCat, MagnoliaPetal, and others for beta reading this for me. :)
> 
> I've always had a huge soft spot for Dorian/Cadash, but there's not too much of it out there (though what is out there is absolutely amazing), especially when compared to other Dorian/Inquisitor fic (which is also great). So I decided that I'd take a stab at writing something of my own for the pairing. This is the longest thing that I've ever written and I'm excited that I was able to share this relationship with you all.
> 
> If you want to say "hi", I'm over at "baratheon" on tumblr.


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